


Rite of Passage

by flinchflower



Series: Flashback [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 4: Cotton (past day).  Sam's first true hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite of Passage

John’s stuck in the ass end of nowhere, again, and doesn’t have enough backup. There aren’t any other hunters close, a call to Bobby clinches that, and he doesn’t have a choice. Three spirits in a single place aren’t his idea of what he wants to take his sons out to deal with, but there’s no help for it. The death here, it was too similar to Mary’s, he can’t let it lie, and besides, Sam has turned sullen lately, complaining that John never gives him enough responsibility, treated him like a baby.

He shouldn’t, he thought, but he hoped that it would be enough responsibility to choke the boy, maybe show him that John was doing him a favor, leaving him home most hunts. He’d have to take them out with him tonight, seventeen and thirteen, and hope that Jim’s God was watching over those boys, that Mary had her eye out for them. He sighs and closes his journal, satisfied he’s got all the information he needs.

“Sammy!”

“WHAT!” The annoyance is plain.

John just grits his teeth. “Come on in here please.” He listens to, and then watches his youngest boy drag his feet, sees Dean lean nonchalantly in the doorframe, frowning. It’s meant as warning to John, to tell him Sam’s in a mood about something, to warn him that Sam’s done nothing he needs punishing for, and God help John if he tries. John’s not sure what to do about that one, either, but at least this time it isn’t going to go that way. Well, provided Sam doesn’t get mouthy. Which with the example Dean’s set over the years, is about as likely as a pig flying.

“What, Dad,” comes the strained tone.

“Need to brief you boys on the hunt we’ll be on tonight.”

Sam doesn’t ask any questions. The attitude is gone as if it never existed, and he sits down, looking expectant. Maybe Dean clued him in, but it’s eerie, the direct focus Sam’s giving him. Reminds him of himself, if he’s honest.

He clears his throat, reminds himself to quit stalling. “We’ve got three spirits in the house. All three of them buried side by side in the basement, a dirt floor down there. Have to get down there, watch our backs along the way, dig ‘em up, salt & burn, get the hell out of there.”

He pulls up the hunt bag, the worn army green of it reflecting in Sam’s eyes, zips it open. He lays out his shotgun, Dean’s, and the little Winchester that his youngest has been shooting with for the last five years, and then a brace of pistols for the boys. He watches a shadow of a scowl cross Sammy’s face, as the kid glances at Dean, and then it leaves, and Sam’s eyes fix expectantly at John. His youngest has been shooting with a Ladysmith, more appropriate to his long, skinny fingers, and he suspects that Dean has teased the kid about the “woman’s gun,” out of their father’s hearing. Sam’s actions here say he’s gonna ignore his brother, expects his dad to back him up, and John won’t let him down. He starts by smacking the seventeen year old in the back of the head when he smirks, and the intent expression on Sam’s face doesn’t waver.

A bag of salt, bottle of kerosene, box of matches and candles goes down in front of Dean, a shovel in front of himself, and an extra bag of salt in front of Sam. That gets a curious look out of Sam, at any rate.

“We watch each other’s backs on the way down there, pistols at the ready. Everything has rocksalt and iron rounds loaded, the spare ammo has nothing but as well. When we locate the graves, we’ll have some trouble. I dig, because I’m bigger and faster, Dean will be ready to salt and burn. Sammy, when we start, it’s your job to run a fast circle around us, keep us safe, you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Good boy. While I’m digging up the graves, you two watch my back. We’ll all be in the circle, but things can go wrong. Rifles at the ready, backup weapon where you can get at it, easy. You keep sharp, listen, and when Dean drops fire, and it lights, the two of you break for it. Dean first, Sammy after, and me behind. The house’ll probably go up, the property owner is expecting it, but I don’t want to stick around, not at night. That’s it.”

He gets firm nods from both of his sons.

The hunt goes just like that, and he’s pleased with the thirteen year old’s focus – maybe it is time to let the kid be hunting with them, just maybe. Except the spirits put up a hell of a fight, as the Winchesters are making their way out. There’s no help for it, the safety margins here didn’t allow them to stay downstairs, not with the piled high brittle dry newspapers around, they couldn’t stay until the spirits were gone, they had to make a break for it.

They were almost in the clear, when the spirit made for Sammy, in the middle, bold ass move even for a ghost, tossing him across the room and into a glass lamp. The boy landed on his back, stunned, then as it approached him, grabbed for his pistol, hollered “DOWN,” and fired when John and Dean dropped, both taking a bead on the thing from their positions on the floor, knowing they were clear of Sammy so long as their firing trajectory stayed above 45 degrees. The spirit dispersed, and John scooped his son up to his feet, and they ran clear of the house, piled in the Impala, and fled, just in time to see the explosion. God knows what else was in the basement. Coal oil, likely.

Sammy was quiet and pale in the backseat on the way back to the motel, while Dean bounced and jiggled and nattered on about the explosion, what must have caused it, and John was concerned by the time they hit home base. Dean piled on out, and John was quick to open Sam’s door, get a good grip on the boy. Scared, maybe, and they’d debrief this time, figure out what’s wrong. John’s heart had stopped when the boy went flying, but it was part of the job. Not that it made seeing his baby boy in danger any easier. There just wasn’t a choice.

Inside, he looked at his youngest son. “Sammy,” he started, but didn’t get any further. The kid knelt down in John’s big duffel, and quietly handed the med kit to his father. Oh, shit. “Sammy,” he says, voice more gentle this time. Sam strips out of his dark t-shirt, and turns ‘round, biting his lip, and it’s all John can do to keep from going to his knees. There are dark,wide gashes across Sam’s back, they’re gonna need stitches to close, some of them.

“Dean,” he says, and the serious tone of his voice cuts the excited babble off, and the boy turns, then pales. He’s stitched up worse on his dad, but this is Sammy. John pulls Sam into his lap, feeling the shivering, and reaches down, drapes one of his own flannels across the boy’s chest, watching him wind his fingers in it, blinking. Shock. “Dean. Hot water, make Sammy some hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, and go out to the Impala, bring in the med bag.” The little kit he keeps in his duffle isn’t going to cut it here. He leans down to his son’s ear, when Dean puts the hot pot on, and rushes out. “I’m proud of you, boy. Thank you for letting me know right when we got in. Maybe next time, though, in the car, ok?”

Sam nods, and John knows damn well why he hadn’t heard anything about the wounds in the car. Sam understood well enough that there’d be nothing they could do until they got back here, had obviously stanched the blood flow with his own flannel, now lying wadded up on the floor. John can see the red stains in the light.

Sam sipped hot chocolate quietly while Dean knelt behind him to assess the wounds, quietly speaking to John. 

“They’re mostly clean, dad, there’s still some glass, but I’d bet there’s dirt-“ Sam wavers in his father’s lap, and John’s quick to take the mostly empty mug, and pull Sam’s head down against his shoulder.

“Hang on there, Sammy, don’t listen. Dean, can you manage it?”

“Yessir.” His son would make a good paramedic, maybe. Good with this stuff. He’d helped stitch Sammy up before, on occasion, and the way the last gash on John’s arm had healed, he was willing to let Dean’s finer touch put the stitches into Sammy. His little boy is nodding sleepily a few minutes later, courtesy of the pain meds he’d swallowed for John.

“Ok, Sammy. Gonna move ya, now, son.” He’s thought it over, and it’s the best way to do this, though it’s gonna take some reassurance, he bets. He lifts the kid, and turns him over on his lap, so that he’s lying face down, chest over John’s broad thighs –it’ll be easier for John to pin him down this way, because the stitches are gonna hurt like a bitch, there on his back like that. He’s not surprised when it launches tears from Sam.

“M’sorry, Daddy, I tried! Please don’t!”

“Shhh. No, Sammy, you’re not in trouble, I’m not gonna spank you, all right? We need to stitch you up, and I need to be able to keep ya from squirming, squirt.”

“Really?” It comes along with a tearful sniffle.

“Really.” It’s hell on all three of them, but they manage to get the kid fixed up. Sam had tried manfully not to squirm too much, but it was a lot to ask of a thirteen year old, one whose inhibitions were stolen away by exhaustion. But it’s finally over, Sam lying tense over his father’s lap, head buried in his arms. “Dean. Clean up, and go grab some pizza, all right?”

“Sure thing.” His teenager is subdued, but he’s responsible, and it won’t surprise anyone to see a kid at the bar asking for a pizza, not at a motel in the middle of nowhere. He gets a curious look from Dean when the teen emerges from the shower and sees that he and Sam haven’t moved, but goes anyways. John knows why Sam hasn’t moved. It takes a while for the burn of the stitches to fade, and the kid’s likely afraid to move.

He gently gets an arm under Sam’s chest, scoots back on the bed until he’s lying down, Sam’s head buried in John’s shoulder. He’s holding the boy carefully, one hand on the back of Sam’s thigh, the other on Sam’s curls, and he can feel the tears dampening the soft cotton of his shirt. A quick kiss to the top of Sam’s head quells the shivering that’s starting again, and he’s amused to see Sam clutching the flannel that John’d given him earlier like a security blanket. 

“Just relax, baby boy,” he murmurs. “YPainkillers should help you be able to sleep.”

“Won’t pull-“

“Nah. You’ll sleep like a log. We’ll be right here with you.” The room’s just got a king, they’ll put Sam between them. Better that way. Dean’s scared, John’s scared, better they have the boy right there between them, because they’ll both be awake, checking on him, until they’ve reassured themselves that he’s fine again. He’s out cold by the time Dean gets back, and the older boy helps John ease the scrawny kid down on the bed, meets his eyes seriously over the pizza.

“You’ll let him hunt again.” Dean isn’t asking, he knows.

“Yeah,” comes the gruff reply. “We need him.”

“Good.” 

It’s the only thing Dean says, it’s free of censure for once, and neither one of them speaks again. John just gets in the shower, and when he’s out, the lights are low, and Dean’s curled around his brother best he can. John doesn’t hide it, this time. Just mirror’s Dean’s motions, and clasps Dean’s forearm, above Sam’s head. It’s an excuse, they can see in each other’s arms, making sure Sam doesn’t roll over, wake in pain. But they both need the reassurance of the close contact, the family moment, and they’ll recover from this one, same as all the others. They’re Winchesters.


End file.
